I heard it – a yell from my parents’ bedroom. I suspected it was a joyful scream because of another Red Sox win. But I still rushed to the room just in case something horrible had occurred.

Already my dad was on the phone, having dialed the only other Red Sox fanatic he knows – my uncle – while raving to my half-asleep mom about how good of a pitcher Sale was and how great Mookie’s first postseason home run was. When I entered he gave me a hand-shattering high-five, while still screaming to Uncle Richie.

He began to do this mixture of complaining and boasting, saying how the team didn’t look so excited because they have had so many celebrations – their fourth World Series title in the past 14 years.

He suddenly said to himself, “I have to cancel that patient on Wednesday”.

Oh no. Not again.

Once more, my father would travel to Boston in one day and go to the parade, wherein the entire Red Sox team would be carried through the streets on a duck boat while fans clad in red and blue cheered and whistled. My father always brags about how he saw Big Papi before he retired and that he pointed specifically at him. And now he was going again.